But man, proud man,Drest in a little brief authority,Most ignorant of what he s most assured,His glassy essence, like an angry ape,Plays such fantastic tricks before high heavenAs make the angels weep.

Ay, but to die, and go we know not where;To lie in cold obstruction and to rot;This sensible warm motion to becomeA kneaded clod; and the delighted spiritTo bathe in fiery floods, or to resideIn thrilling region of thick-ribbed ice;To be imprisond in the viewless winds,And blown with restless violence round aboutThe pendent world.